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It was early, perhaps too early. It was o’dark-thirty in the morning and I was tossing my gear bag out the slider onto the patio as Ryan pulled up. You’d suspect we where going steelhead fishing on the Lower Deschutes. But no, we where not, we were not even heading far enough from town to warrant such an early departure. We were simply heading over to the Metolius for some trout fishing. So why so early? I don’t know: hedge our bets on getting into fish by having more time, give Ryan first light opportunities for his photography, I’m that slow at rigging up. It could be any number of things. One thing for sure, we both thought our departure time was sort of ridiculous. But there we were throwing my gear in the back of Ryan’s truck in the dark of the morning. I looked back at my place and saw… well I didn’t see much. It was dark as hell and all the lights where out. I didn’t stir wife or son. It would be an hour or more before they woke, flicked on kitchen lights, and started their day. By then I would be on the river trying to sniff out the notoriously educated Metolius bows.

The ride out wavered between fishing and having kids; Ryan’s expecting his first born soon and I’m battling mine and the horrible threes. As for the fishing conversation, thoughts where expressed on how hard the Metolius can fish. There’s times when things click and everything goes well, but there are often times when it doesn’t click and there seem to be nary a fish around. We decided we had enough time to fish any water we wanted

There seems to be plenty of evidence to suggest the river is chock full of fish, such as the redd counts being up. Stocking of hatchery reared fish ceased on the Metolius in 1996 and it became a wild trout fishery once again. Subsequently, Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife started studying spawning activity via redd counts. According to the study the count went from approximately 150 redds in the mid 1990’s to nearly 500 in the late ’90’s with a huge jump in 2002-’03 of nearly 1,200 redds. It had a drop in 2006 to around 600 and since then has seemed to settle on around a 900 redd count. There’s definitely fish, but they lack the hatchery nature, which is great. Moving fisheries away from hatchery stock and towards a healthy and vital wild fishery is and should be a goal on many rivers. However, it means you trade the gullible sluggish pale hatchery fish for a Ph.D educated strong beautifully colored wild fish. The fishing can lend itself towards difficult, especially when we’re talking about that fishery being on a clear, glacier blue, spring fed river. It’s a trade off, but one well worth it.

We turned onto Camp Sherman road and headed towards what we hoped to be a day where everything clicked. We swung by the headwaters for Ryan to snap a few first light photos for his stock images. I was unsure why he thought wet wading the Metolius (a river with a consistent water temp of 48 degrees fahrenheit) on a slightly chilly morning seemed like a “quick and easy” solution for his pics… But hey, it wasn’t my sack going in the frigid water. Once Ryan shivered out of the cold water we motored down river and stopped at the small quant Camp Sherman store. It’s a place that sells most anything anyone could need or want in these parts. Anything from micros and macros, deli meats, camp accoutrements, handcrafted bamboo fly rods to post cards to send back home saying you might be gone longer than originally thought. They even have some good espresso, which I was in need of. Just one catch. The store needs to be open to acquire any of the said items, at least in a legal fashion. I was in need of more caffeine but not of a criminal record. Damn early starts and not enough coffee.

Photo credit: Ryan Brennecke

Photo credit: Ryan Brennecke

We hit a couple spots we both knew fairly well, looking to get on the board early and fend off any skunk. Although quite a few campgrounds had a decent amount of filled sites, there wasn’t anyone on the water fishing, but that was sure to change. Our spots turned up nothing. We didn’t even get a sighting. We tossed a few under some brush and over hanging branches here and there to no avail. The thought and hope was to coach something unseen out. We talked about it being too early, how hatches and fish seem to keep gentleman hours and things will pick up later in the morning. All the normal talks everyone gives themselves when things are slow. Which saying that is in itself funny. The phrase “it’s slow” is used when things are not just slow but rather aren’t happening. It’s comforting self rhetoric.

It wasn’t just us. Later in the day we bumped into two other fisherman, only two so far, who claimed things were slow too. Shortly after leaving them we spotted a nice fish finning under a down tree. Lined up just perfectly where the cast had to be dead on, the drift just right and the hook set and play of the fish well orchestrated. He was the valedictorian of his class. Ryan attempted the fish while I rigged up for the challenge. He tangled and broke off just as I finished my double nymph rig setup. As he was re-rigging I managed a couple valiant attempts, one of which nearly tapped him on his nose. Then one too many bold attempts and I found myself in a tangoing with far too twiggy bush. Ryan, now reset, went back at it while I tried to unweave my tangled web of monofilament. Back and forth it went, ailing attempts to reach such a precisely lying fish. We surrendered our feeble pursuits conjured by our 3 pound (six collectively) human brains to his apparent malevolent, and obviously more sophisticated, pea size brain and perfect position. We however kept one eye on trickster as we backed away.

Photo credit: Ryan Brennecke

We spotted a few more fish in a deep pool. Couldn’t slam anything down far and fast enough for them nor could they be brought up. The day stretched onward and the conversation during hikes and new locations and fish hunting went towards the eerily missing fishing folks. It was a weekend, why wasn’t there more people on the river? Was that a sign of something we didn’t know? That the fishing on the Metolius has been slow and folks camping out here were “just enjoying the view” and not here to fish? Not only where there nary a fish around, there was hardly anyone out besides us trying to find them. I’m sure they were there, after all there’s the redd counts and fish studies to support it. However, we were getting beat. Beat by the fish, beat by the amount of time we had been hiking, beat by our early rise… We had enough.

I’m thinking of resting the river until it’s time to chase the Bull trout who chase the Kokanee. It comforts me to think I wouldn’t be foolish enough to repeat this day so soon and expect a different result. I probably won’t, but right now, that’s what I’m thinking.

It was a slow methodical rigging. Erroneously double checking that every guide was strung. Adjusting straps on an already adjusted pack. Tying tippet on with a blood knot when I knew a double surgeons would suffice for the fishing we where about to do. I wouldn’t say I was deliberately taking it slow, none of us where in any real hurry, nor did I have any reproach in regards to our impending water. I was just sort of… curious. That’s all. Curious how the water would look, how I would fish it.

My last visit to “The Punch Bowl” definitely left an impression on me; any complete submersion would. It impressed enough on me to try on different wading belts until I found the one with the greatest comfortability factor to ensure it’s use.

I’ve gotten severely cautious about my wading, more so than usual. I’ve never considered myself an adventurous wader, but now I second guess what I would have never given any thought to. I was definitely shaken by going down. Any confidants that I did have for sloshing through rushing water, leaping a boulder or two, weaving in, on and around snarled log jams was drowned. But now I’m going back to the scene of the accident. It’s my chance to face the demon and ask “What the hell?” Then poke it’s eye and run the other way.

The distinguishing click and following hiss of a snapped beer can tab rang out and awoke me from my trance. I notice Jake and Arian, standing, patiently awaiting for fishing to begin and rigging to end. I ended my internal conversation and grab the cool perspiring can of beer Arian was offering me. “We’ll just kill a little time here until it get’s closer to last light, then head up river to the other spot. The good one. Last time I was up there they were just smashing it.” Jake proclaims with a slight, sort of maniacal, chuckle. We all smile with the prospect of getting into some hard hitting brookies.

I was about to crack the beer as we started towards the trailhead. “You don’t mind if we partake in libations around you, do you?” I ask Jake knowing he’s been free of the habit for a little over three years now.

“Nah. I don’t mind at all. I just can’t have any. I have this allergy – every time I drink I seem to break out in cuffs.” He chuckled. We all share the laugh and head towards fishing, leaving my internal conversation and vehicle roadside.

Photo credit: Arian Stevens

The first spot we stop to fish is “The” spot. As we approach I start doubting that it is the spot. I look towards river left bank. This can’t be it. There’s no giant branch obstructing the edge of the pool where I went in off the point. Below the pool is a down skeletal tree but not as I remembered it; as the big bushy trunk where I bassmastered the brookie out from under.

“So, this is it?” Arian asks.

Photo credit: Arian Stevens

“I’m not sure. I’m pretty sure it is, but everything seems off. It’s possibly the next hole.” I answer with uncertainty and walk down the bank peering into the water looking for recognition, either from me to the river or the river to me. It doesn’t seem threatening. I feel sort of bewildered to the reason why such a seemingly tame waterway would drag and shove me like a cattle catcher on a locomotive. I recognize the tree in the shallows above the pool and the submerged limps towards the bank. I walk to the point and look into the pool. Yup. This is the brute. The one that dragged me down but managed to break free of. It’s the abyss. I look at it some more. I look into it. I look all around it. There’s a slight, but definite, change to everything. There’s a softer, sorrowful tone. I guess as the season wears the punch softens. There’s change in both of us but not quite to an unrecognizable difference. I unhook the streamer from the guide wire, let out line and toss it into the current.

Photo credit: Arian Stevens

After a few strips of a streamer it seems nothing is going to come out or up for a take. Perhaps that’s how it’s suppose to be. Just a gentle reintroduction, get reacquainted before more fish are let to hand. I feel comfortable and start fishing deferent areas of the Punch Bowl. I throw the streamer a few times below the pool. Then wade across well above the pool, and try a small seam on the other side.

I spot a couple small risers but have little desire in re-rigging. I get a good solid tug on the streamer but miss the hook up. Arian’s taking pictures in between a few tosses of a dry fly. Jake’s on the other side of the river spotting for fish in the deep pool, his rod leaning next to him rigged with a two nymph setup. Fishing is slow all around. Someone, not sure who, mentioned time. It’s nearing low light and for us to motor over to the other spot for smashing action during last light. I reel in and head back towards the trailhead behind the other guys.

Photo credit: Arian Stevens

Photo credit: Arian Stevens

Photo credit: Arian Stevens

The “good hole” as Jake put it, is a slow flow but nipple deep wading experience. Stripping streamers hounded out a few pumps here and there but nothing buttoning up. Jake switched to a Chubby Chernobyl for some reason or another and buttoned up and got a brookie to hand. I switched… yup. Arian made a comment about the amazing wonders of the Purple Chubby Chernobyl. I’m not really focused on the fishing. I slip back into an internal conversation - It’s the little wonders and what ifs amazing us the most. Often things are just on the edge of working and you need to figure out that slight change in order to get things to click. Sometimes things fail completely and you have to look at it as a learning experience and not a failing endeavor. Was my complete submersion a utter failing? Not really. I got the fish. I learned to always wear a wading belt. Best of all, I got a story I’m sure to yarn out every once in awhile around angling friends. I went back, faced the demon, but found that it wasn’t really there. I didn’t have to poke his eye and run the other way.

There’s a nice little lake just south of Bend Oregon, two awesome lakes actually, East Lake and Paulina Lake. They are both crater lakes in the Newberry Caldera within the Newberry National Volcanic Monument. Paulina Lake is at just over 6,300 feet elevation while East Lake is slightly higher at just under 6,400 feet. Give or take on each of those measurements. Not trying to Wiki it here, just trying to give the general idea. The caldera was formed by an eruption over 500,000 years ago. The main inflow for the lakes are rain, snow and some hot springs. The hot springs are what gives the cautionary warning on consuming too many fish from them – natural occurring mercury. I’m not for fishing stillwater fisheries all that much, so no worries on over exposure and consumption and turning into some sort of mutant super fisher with a fly rod for an arm and a net for a sac. Nevertheless, it’s a beautiful place to hike, camp and sometimes fish.

I prefer East Lake myself, it covers slightly less area and is much smaller in depth and volume, which gives a feeling of intimacy with the water and fish. It’s not too massive and deep where you loose yourself or targets, i.e. fish. Not to mention the weed bed that pretty much encompasses the lake allowing for copious amounts of said targets. One of the big reasons to head there is the Callibeatis hatch. Massive amounts of bugs and fish feeding on them. Another good reason is the lakes elevation.

We’ve been getting some unusual, or maybe it’s the new norm – global warming and what not, high temps for this time of year around here. Just last weekend it got near a 100, they’re still hovering around that gnarly three digit number. That’s above 15 more degrees than the years past averages. So when a buddy offered to take his canoe up there for us to fish it I said… “Sure why not. I guess we could.” Like I said before, I’m not much of a stillwater fly fisher which is why my enthusiasm for the proposition seemed less than optimal.

However, the more I thought about it as I readied my gear for the next day the more I thought about the predicted temps and the elevation of East Lake. Temps up above would be cooler than down below. Fishing this stillwater started sounding better. Especially when compared to my original plan of battling the massive swarms of black blood sucking clouds of mosquitoes in the heat on the Upper Deschutes for brookies. The next morning we loaded his boat and were off to slightly lower temps and swarms of friendly grayish Callibeatis. Upon arrival my mood swung around again – “Holy crowded ramp / lake / bank / campground Batman!” People everywhere. With motors going and diesel and gas smoke rolling. Dang! I knew it would be crowed but… dang.

Nevertheless, we put in and started paddling. Another friend met us at the lake and was going to join us with his float tube. We where heading towards his “spot” as he called it. He was up at East the weekend before and said he did really well/ I noticed there where fewer people over in “the spot” which made me sort of skeptical. Given this crowd, and If it was a sweet spot, why wouldn’t there be a line and a ticket dispenser to fish it? But I shrugged off the skepticism in hopes of shaving the cynicism. At least we were paddling away from everyone.

As we paddled over some deeper water I looked down into clear glacier blue water. I felt bad for the fish’s volubility from overhead predators but took great joy in the ability to view such a beautiful underwater world. The crowd was dwindling in view, sound and mind. We were engulfed by swarms of delicately fluttering Callibeatis. I spotted a riser, then another. I heard a take behind me. I looked down and spot fish cruising. I started taking line off my reel and wondered if I’ll be able to connect to the electricity of my current surroundings.

I missed a handful of takes. Remembering stillwater ain’t my game. I had a talk with myself and actually listened. Setting the hook stillwater fishing has a subtle difference to it than doing so river fishing. Everything has a slightly slower rhythmic feel. The fish are methodically cruising in search of food, rather than a rushing trough of water conveying food to them. You have to give a split second more for the fish to take the fly. Their lurking towards it not darting out of a lie to nab it. Hook up!

I might try to fish stillwater a bit more, but it would take a more comfortable flotation device. Like a drift boat. Not that there’s anything wrong with a canoe.

I’m not much for using a landing net. I have one, I just rarely use it. Heck I rarely even take it with me. It seems to cause more headache than not. The hook sometimes snags on the mesh while still in the fish, causing for a hair raising situation and very concerning handling. I’ve always managed to get the hook / mesh / fish untangled and the fish safely released. But it’s nevertheless… well… a chitty situation. Additionally, the net gets caught / snagged / hooked on every branch / bush / shrub. So I opted to hardly, if ever, use it anymore.

It could easily be said that I’m just carrying the wrong type of landing net. And I should look into one of those rubber bucket nets that are easier on the fish’s mucoprotein protective slim coat and don’t snag hooks. It is an option I’m considering. However, I still have reservations about carrying and using one. I stopped using a vest awhile ago, which was sort of the catalyst to stop carrying the net all together. Without the vest I lack a D-ring to hang it from. I use a hip-pack or lumbar pack or whatever you want to call it. I just know most people fear and avoid the term “fanny” pack, for good enough reasons I suppose. Utilizing this sort of pack means sticking the handle into my wading belt or pack belt, which means it gets in the way every time I need to swing the pack around and change my setup. So, I have to let it dangle by my side tethered by a cord, then replace it back in it’s holding position when I’m done changing my setup. This is were I started thinking a little harder.

Although I’m inconvenienced when I need to change my setup, or inconvenienced to come up with a different system to carry the net, I started thinking about the fish. Really. I mean, how can my insignificant inconvenience compare to the fish’s? There the fish is, just merrily going about daily business, when suddenly a morsel comes along that isn’t exactly like the others, but the fish nevertheless, for some unbeknownst reason, is fooled into chomping on it. Then… BAM! Next thing the fish knows it’s impaled by something and is being directed against it’s will hither and thither. Then suddenly it’s pulled toward the surface and out of the water in the gleaming sunlight unable to blink (no eyelids and all) towards some sort of bipedal animal with a chit eating grin. The fish feels a somewhat overly firm grip, borderline grope, around it. The impaling thing is removed and the fish is placed back into the water; stunned, confused and feeling slightly violated with less mucoprotein protective slime and with a new hole in it’s head. Now that is one heck of an ordeal.

Considering what the fish goes through for me, I think I can be inconvenienced every so often to change setups or come up with a new carrying system and carry a net. After all, carrying and using a rubber landing net is at least going to lessen the inconvenience the fish goes through. And that’s more of a priority than me personally being slightly inconvenienced. So, after these considerations I guess I convinced myself to head down and see my friends at Fly and Field Outfitters and peruse new nets, one with a rubber bucket. Time to purchase a fish helping device rather than a fish catching one.

Just my thoughts. Who knows, perhaps I can exchange those thoughts for $0.000002 towards the new net… I’m know where near getting a penny for any of my thoughts.

Here’s a great short from Outside Bend Productions. There is an additional level of greatness to this short other than the awesome videography. It’s vol. I, meaning there’s more to come. Which is great, cause after viewing this, I’m in need of more.

I am eagerly awaiting vol. II and hearing more incorporation of The Stones. Make sure to check out OBP’s other great works by clicking above link or – here